


Down in the River to Pray

by Zinc (zincviking)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Depression, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-22 22:16:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8303215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zincviking/pseuds/Zinc
Summary: Cassandra and Kynan suffer under the weight of their choices and guilt; perhaps they find kindred souls in each other and learn to heal and become more alongside each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The worst summary, but I was inspired by this tumblr post because it is amazing. I hope to add more, but no promises.
> 
> http://pearwaldorf.tumblr.com/post/151904956277/sometimes-when-you-write-about-characters-youre

There was something simple about her morning walks. The cool, crisp scent of the waning winter calmed her ever brittle nerves. As raw and sore as she felt, she held her tongue in the way of complaints. Cassandra saw the burden of the world on her brother and his party. They smiled, but their eyes remained tired. She had to support a city, which was no easy feat. She could hardly imagine what it felt like to support the weight of thousands, dead and alive, suffering and at peace. She could not imagine.

  


Cassandra found every reason to escape the castle, of which she was a prisoner of for so long. It suffocated her, as if the fires of the coups and attempted revolutions still poured smoke into the halls. Her throat felt sore and raw, and she delighted in the idea of her smoke being real. She denied, even to herself, it was because of her screaming into her pillows into the wee hours of the dawn. This mid-morning walk was no different, as she entered the city of Whitestone.

  
Many who passed bowed to her, and she nodded back. Part of her wished they didn’t bother. She hadn’t earned her title back yet. Unlike Percy, she didn’t claw to her victory, saving people and suffering under the weight of that prospect: Winning. Percy had his own demons, of course. Hers, however, were born entirely of her own self-hatred and stone heart. It hurt to look at herself in the mirror, fearful of the scars in her back and chest. Scared more of the scars in her eyes, the cold stare she has mastered to hide all her thoughts. How desperately she could share her troubles, her woes. But the only person she trusted enough to do so was constantly gone, on his own adventures. And when he returned to Whitestone, she could never bring up the words passed the hard lump in her throat. She ignored them instead, and ruffled his hair and hid from his curiosity with expertise that only was wrought with knowing someone from birth.  


Without even realizing it, so lost was she in her own thoughts, she wandered near to the training area. The guards and soldiers were worse off since Vox Machina sent Kashaw away to Vassilhiem, but a few of the exemplary had risen to help guide the lesser along their paths. Cassandra spied a strong looking woman guiding a few of the men through swordsman techniques. Cassandra recognized the feet stance, but little more. Curious, she paused to scan the field. With her status she could explain she was surveying the forces of Whitestone. Without her status she could be among them. There was a hush in her breath as she realized how she longed for it. To earn her place, like everyone else. She had betrayed everyone here, and they did not know. Fairness, she thought, was a coup all its own.

  


Just as she was going to turn away and wander back to the castle to her lonesome study, she spied the young man that had accompanied Vox Machina back to Whitestone when Percy was…ill. She didn’t know much about the missions Vox Machina went on, only the stories that those in the taverns made up with vigor and enthusiasm. She brushed her hair out of her face as she watched Jarret straighten the boy’s back. He didn’t seem much older than she, and yet his eyes held the same fierce determination as any of the others. Yet, there was no light within them. Her breath caught in her throat with such sudden emotion. How often had she witnessed her own eyes reflect the same lost stare? Cold determination was all she could summon nowadays.

  


Jarret patted him on the shoulder before gesturing to the target and saying something. She did not hear what, but the former head of the guard wandered off to help a few of the soldiers with their own flaws and issues. Briefly, she wondered if Jarret was being paid the proper amount for the work he did. The thought passed quickly after she noted to look into that. Her eyes fell back to the young man who retrieved the dagger he tossed into the tree stump with a solid, hard _thunk_.

  


Before she lost her nerve, she walked over to where he was. He had turned away just as she approached and did not notice her. His ash blonde hair was longer than most men’s and tied back, and his hands were rough. She could tell he still needed to grow into his body. Self-conscious, she glanced down to herself. She probably was the same way. Children, forced into roles too big for themselves. She straightened her back and waited for his attention. As he turned, he startled, immediately raising a dagger for defense. Cassandra only raised her brow, glancing between the weapon and his face as he sheepishly lowered his arm.

  


”Apologies,” he spoke curtly, as if he wasn’t sure what to say. There was a slight pink to his cheeks, but he seemed sullen still, eyes drawn to the ground. “Uh, my lady,” he added on quickly as he squeezed his eyes shut. After a moment, he straightened his back and breathed out. “Are you looking for Jarret?”

  


“I’m not,” she said slowly, glancing to Jarret. He could help her, surely, but he had so many other responsibilities, and she did not want to trouble someone older than her. It felt wrong, pushy even. As if she was demanding someone to help with her childish whims. “Can you teach me how to do that?” She asks. Straight forward. She’s tired of the vague planning, the talk of spies and liars and other countries. She’s not a queen. She’s barely a Lady. And she’s eyeing the dagger in his hands, because more than anything does she want to know how to _wield_ , how to properly throw, to defend herself. By extension, she supposes, she wants to know how to kill.

  


His brow rose but he flipped the dagger with ease and caught it by the blade, offering the hilt to her. It was warm from his palm, and she was glad he didn’t ask any questions. The dagger was familiar, in a distant way. Like she dreamt of this moment, long ago, and now it was coming true. It was comfortable, more than it should’ve been. Part of her wandered what blood has stained this blade. Percy was lucky, in a way, as was Vex. They left their marks and weapons within the corpses of their enemies. Cassandra wondered how Vax felt, or Grog, carrying around the weapons stained with red. She wondered if this boy understood. A life where the only satisfaction came from sinking a blade into something was a frightening prospect to Cassandra. She stepped where he told her to step. Yet, none of her books fascinated her anymore. Her sewing held little interest, and even her artwork held no passion for her anymore. He adjusted her grip on the handle, and his words were soft, but firm. She liked it. They grounded her as she focused on the stump.

  


_Thunk_. It lands, the dagger wobbling as the tip of the blade sits within the wood. She missed the target by a margin, but she hit the stump. There was a warmth of satisfaction within her gut and she smiled a bit before she let it drop. It wasn’t good enough. Once upon a time she was a capable young woman. She could smile at the right times, curtsy at the best times, and say the right words in the right order, and that made her capable. Now, the right words had no meaning, smiles were empty and she felt nothing from them. A curtsy was a weakness, and she felt no pride in knowing how to do it well. But this, she could make this make her capable. Cassandra was tired of the emptiness of her words, of the words of her brother and her council members. This was capable.

  


The boy looked surprised. A part of her was annoyed. Did she really look so helpless? In these times of war and strife, she was the fragile creature, the wilting flower. She refused to be any longer, and fixed him with a steely gaze. “I will never let anyone make me helpless again,” Cassandra said simply. The boy, she made a note to find out his name, had the sense to nod without staring too much. “Will you assist me?” She asked, again, before her nerves, raw and sensitive, could pull her back from him. His eyes clouded with a thoughtfulness, while he strode forward and yanked the dagger from the stump, before they found hers again.

  


”Meet me after training ends for the day,” he agreed before quickly adding, “If you can. I know you’re busy.” Cassandra watched him for a moment, wondering briefly if he was serious. She didn’t want to risk upsetting him by questioning it, so she remained faithful to his intentions for now. Gods help him if he intends to trick her or make a fool of her. He looked flushed as she stared at him before he dropped his eyes to the ground. Bashful? Or ashamed? She didn’t know.

  


”I will make time. See that you do.” Without another word she turned on her heel and left. Her heart hammered in her chest, not because of him, but what he could offer. Equality. Two people fighting against the world, wondering their place in it. She faces her guilt in the face of her brother, of her people, and knows she does not deserve their forgiveness. Now, however, she can wield her guilt in the form of a hard blade. Her enemies will never see her coming, and she regain the power of the de Rolo name in her own way, separate from her brother and his damned forgiveness.

  
As she approached the castle, it did not seem so dreary. It was not home yet, but now there was a chance for it to become one again. Her palm tingled where the wrapped hilt of the dagger rubbed against her skin when she threw the weapon. Her skin was alight, and she couldn’t wait to return to the training grounds to work with the boy with her eyes. First, however, she would find out his name.


	2. Chapter 2

Kynan flushed when he heard Jarret’s laugh. The older man put his hand on his shoulder, squeezing it a bit. Annoyed, Kynan glanced up, but saw only a thoughtful stare as Lady de Rolo left the training grounds. Jarret didn’t say anything more, just returned Kynan to his drills. This was what Kynan was most grateful for. Jarret has a routine in training, repeat until perfect. It let Kynan lose himself in the way his daggers landed into the scarred wood, a repeating beat of his feet on the hardened dirt, the yank of the metal out of wood, his footsteps back to his spot and the resounding _thunk_. This routine was the only thing that made sense to him anymore.

  


Jarret once again touched his shoulder. Kynan startled, yanking his attention back to his mentor, or his warden, he wasn’t sure which one yet. The Marquesan man held out some bread and cheese as well as a bowl of steaming soup. “It is best not to teach under an empty stomach, yes?” Jarret teased. With flushed cheeks, which he blamed on the cold, Kynan sheathed his dagger and took the food. As he settled on the stump he practiced upon, his eyes wandered the training grounds. Save for Jarret’s retreating back the grounds were empty. Swords and bows put away, dummies left to the cold of night. And Kynan, waiting anxiously for a noble woman to come calling.

  


The bread was slightly stale, but the soup warmed his hands and his insides. The cheese was sharp and hid the stale taste fairly well. He cleaned out the bowl and spoon with some water from his waterskin as he waited. The dusk was calm. Whitestone’s people sat in their homes, white smoke curling out of houses. Kynan wondered what Vox Machina was doing. What Vax’Ildan was doing. Being a hero, no doubt.

  


Unable to sit and think in silence, Kynan took up his blades, the ones Vax had given them. He paused to look them over. They had the brief sheen of enchantment, though he didn’t know what. Emotion rose in his throat. They were all his heroes. How he wanted to blame them for leading him astray. Could he even blame Ripley for it? He made his choices, and they were his to make. He chose to believe that Vox Machina caused the dragons, he chose to follow Ripley with her bizarre weapons, like Percival’s. He cleaned the daggers, methodically, though no dirt or grime could stain or rust the metal. He never really thought he’d hold an enchanted weapon before. Now that he has, it doesn’t feel like anything. It feels like any dagger. He doesn’t feel worthy of it.

  


The crunch of dirt and leaves underfoot caught his attention and he looked up to see a young woman approaching in a light winter cloak. She lowered the hood, and he saw the brown hair with the streaks of white. It was pulled back into a ponytail, though, and as she approached, Cassandra started to undo the fastenings. Kynan stood quickly, almost dropping the dagger he was just cleaning into the dirt. If Cassandra noticed, she didn’t make any acknowledgement, of which he was grateful.

  


”Er, my Lady,” he tried, the words awkward on his common tongue. He wasn’t raised to be a noble. He didn’t know if he should bow to her, or how to address her. Cassandra’s eyes glinted in the dim dusk light, amusement quirking her clean lips. There was a scar, just below her lower lip on her right side. It was silvery, and pale, and he didn’t know what to do with that information. Blushing now, he lowered his gaze, unsure of where to go.

  


There was a flare of light as Cassandra lit a lantern nearby, bringing it close to rest on the stump. “I think, for these training sessions only, you may call me Cassandra,” she said as she folded her cloak over her arm before laying it on a smooth patch of dirt. She was dressed in fine leather pants. A corset held the loose cotton shirt to her form, and worn, but finely made, leather boots covered her feet and rose to her knees. It made him feel entirely under dressed in whatever hand-me downs he had received from Jarret and Ripley. He thumbed a hole in the side of his shirt where the cold wind licked his goosebumped flesh. “Let us not waste time, and begin,” she prompted, hands on her hips. He jumped into action, any excuse to not think about the deeper things that plagued his conscience. Any excuse to only focus on the rytham of daggers piercing wood, pretending it was flesh. He wondered, after he taught her the posture and the way to hold a dagger by its blade, if he wanted to pretend it was _his_ flesh. Punishment for the wicked.

  


She came every evening, dressed the same way, her long hair tied back. As Jarret taught him, he turned around and taught her. They graduated from throwing daggers at stumps to sparring together with wooden weapons. She was faster than him, but he was a hair stronger. They were evenly matched. More than often he would return to the room he was given to stay in, eyeing the bruises on his side from where she struck. Fast like a snake, she struck before he even realized she was moving. It became abundantly clear that simple sparring was not helping anymore; neither of them were learning anything, and they grew bored and weary of battering at each other like rapid dogs. Yet, after each spar, she would settle on the stump, laughing. He would laugh, too.

  


There was a relief in the spar. They got to _hit_ things. Things that would feel the power behind the blows. With strands of her hair sticking to her forehead, and her cheeks flushed with exertion and sweat, Kynan saw beauty. Here, when her muscles twitched and shook beneath the leather of her pants, and her breath glowed in the dim light of the lantern like mist from ice, he saw beauty. It struck him like a punch to the gut. If she noticed his gawking, she did not say. Every evening, after their training, she would depart with a simple, “Have a good night, Kynan,” and he would reply, “You as well, Lady Cassandra.” It signaled the end of the training, when they were no longer equals. When she became the Lady of Whitestone again, and he just the ward of a former Head of the Guard.

  


”My brother has an idea for those weapons they salvaged from Glintshore,” she says one day as they rest for water. They sat with backs against the scarred stump. Kynan tenses immediately. He remembers the Island of Glass. Remembered the jagged black crystals that cut into his feet as he lunged forward, slipping Whisper into Keyleth like she was butter. He heard the faint sounds, like cloth brushing stone, of voices from the blade, from the darkness. He remembers the screams of Vax’Ildan telling him to stop, of Vex’Ahlia screaming for Percival. Cassandra presses on, her voice lulling him back to the present, as she presses her shoulder firmly against a bruise on his bicep. The pain jolts him back to the present entirely, but she continues on as if she doesn’t notice. He is grateful. “He wants to set up an elite guard for the castle. Perhaps to guard the war room,” she says dismissively as if it were trivial gossip.

  


Kynan knew what plan she spoke of. Vax’Ildan had brought up the idea to him a few weeks ago. Before Vox Machina went off to deal with gods knows. One of the dragons, probably, to be heroes. Kynan thought it must be easy to be heroes. All you had to do was get rid of the biggest monsters, and make empty promises to everyone. He rubbed his jaw where Cassandra had punched him. _Hang the war room_ he thought, _she’s the only thing worth protecting in that damned castle,_ and his thoughts startled him. He lowered his eyes to the ground, kicking aside a rough looking stone and rolling it under the arch of his foot to work out an invisible knot. Whether that knot was in his foot or his throat, he couldn’t be sure.

  


”So, like Jarret?” he asked, toying with the cap on his wineskin, wishing it was wine that filled the leather bladder so he could just down it and be done with the day. Cassandra laughed, and rested her hand on his knee. It felt comfortable, and he felt the tension ease from his muscles. It had only been a handful of weeks since they started to train together, since he had even arrived in Whitestone, but there was an ease with them. He felt comfortable around her, though he didn’t quite understand as to why. “You don’t think he’d be good?” Kynan smiled a bit.

  


”I think he would be adequate, of course,” she said, wrinkling her nose before raising it in the way that made her look arrogant and stand offish. Her voice mimicked the pompous ass routine that her brother liked to do when he spouted of some sort of wisdom, and Kynan couldn’t help but burst out laughing. “Yes, yes, of course, absolutely adequate, mmm yes,” she continued before she burst out into laughter. They descended into a giggling fit. As they calmed down, they’d make eye contact and burst into laughter again. Well past their allotted break time, they were still giggling over their wineskins. “No, no, don’t look at me,” she laughed, her soft hand pushing his face away. He allowed it, laughing even more as her attempts to calm down. “I meant, you jerk, that _you_ could be a part of that party,” she finally managed to get out.

  


For a moment Kynan thought she was joking again. Kynan could barely imagine himself being anything besides what he was, a ward, a degenerate floating between people, lost and confused and alone. Perhaps not so alone anymore, since Cassandra came to him for training, but she would eventually become satisfied with her skill level and return to her work as Lady of Whitestone, and he would be left to float alone again. He laughed, but her hand had grown soft on his cheek, and he dared to make eye contact with her. There was no burst of giggles this time as she looked at him. Her eyes were warm. His breath became caught in his throat, and he forgot how to breathe. Warm, like a fireplace or a fresh cup of tea. It soothed his jagged pieces back into place, and that scared him. He hadn’t seen warmth like that in so long. His father wasn’t so nurturing, and whatever guidance he sought from Vox Machina, they only returned his pleas with harsh reality. Ripley had been close, but her cunning tongue and ambition belied her true intentions—he had followed her anyways, and it still hurt in the end to watch her fall—but this was entirely new.

  


He wanted to run, or pull back and suggest another sparring session, but there was a tension holding him in place. It was so dangerous to hand him a weapon like those. Guns were evil, he had decided, formed from an evil mind. Yet, what difference was a dagger or a sword, or a crossbow. Had he just thought she would be worth protecting? The beautiful girl that was hard like gems and sharp like glass. Who would not let anyone hurt her again? Who would fight, tooth and nail, for her victory in the end? She who survives above all else. “Sure,” he breathed, unsure as to why he was agreeing. This felt different from Vax’Ildan’s suggestion or offer. This felt more stable, more real. “Sure, if you want,” he added casually, desperately yanking back the rope of control. She let it slip through her fingers without a fight as she smiled a bit and kissed his cheek. It made him smile, the warmth in her eyes settling in his gut, making his heart flutter. He didn’t feel lost, like he wanted to hurt something, like the only thing that mattered was to stab something until everything else made sense. This golden warmth was better than that cold hard satisfaction. He wanted to lay in the sunshine, and compare the feelings. He was utterly convinced that this sensation was better by far than any sunlight or campfire. He could feel himself thawing.

  


”Lady Cassandra,” a curt voice entered their realm. Kynan had forgotten it was not just them, twisting around each other in this dark, cold sea, warming each other against their own bodies. Whispering safety, whispering about a future. He looked up to see Allura, and if she had noticed the connection Cassandra and he had just shared, she did not mention. And he wasn’t sure if he was grateful. “Vox Machina has returned, and we’re calling an emergency meeting in the war room.”

  


Cassandra hardened again, but her fingers were still soft as she touched his wrist as the entrance to the training grounds. Her eyes softened a fraction as well, and there was a quirk to her lips. It comforted him as he sharpened their blades, and readied his armor and weapons in case he was called upon. As evening drew in and Jarret and he enjoyed dinner at the small table in the inn, he spent the quiet moments thinking about Cassandra and wondering if her offer was legitimate. He recalled her jokes to himself, laughing into his food much to Jarret’s confusion. The memory of their laughing fit nearly caused one again as Jarret just ushered more ale into his cup with a shake of his head. He went to bed not dreading the blackness of sleep, but anticipating their training session tomorrow.


End file.
